


Over his Heart

by thehandofathief



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehandofathief/pseuds/thehandofathief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set before, after and during Inception - this is about how Eames got the creases in his jacket in Arthur's dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over his Heart

**Over his Heart** -  _why Arthur dressed Eames in a creased jacket_

Those creases in Eames' jacket weren't accidental, they couldn't have been.  Arthur wasn't careless and he wasn't one for unconscious slips.  Yeah, ok, he'd missed the fact that the mark's projections were militarised and that was a biggy, but he was meticulous, it must have been buried pretty fucking deep for it to be hidden from Arthur.  He was the best, after all. 

No, this meant something, these creases were unnecessary, Eames didn't need to look slightly rumpled, everyone else looked flawless.  Actually, forget flawless, Saito looked bloody _gorgeous_ , but aside from some mild flirtation on the part of his favourite blonde, Eames knew better than to make a play for the businessman.  Anyway, he was no Arthur.

Then there was the matter of the sock garters, red and tight around his calves right now.  Arthur had put them there and, yes, he'd also put Ariadne in a tailored suit but this, this was some real attention to detail.  Sock garters were an acquired taste and Eames personally couldn't see the appeal of a man wearing nothing but socks and briefs but if Arthur liked it, well, Eames aimed to please.  Still, they hadn't spoken in almost a year and, snarking aside, working together on this job hadn't done much to heal the rift between them.  So, why the creases and the garters?

See, a long time ago, back when Eames was still on the straight and narrow and Arthur was a military man, they worked a job together.  That's how they met, as colleagues.  It was all pretty routine and yet the planning stage was dragging on interminably.  They spent a whole day gearing up for a rehearsal with talks on the health and safety surrounding the sedatives and the correct way to insert an IV line.  Arthur and Eames spent the entire session exchanging glances at each other and, after a break, Eames took up the seat next to the sharp boy with his sleeves rolled up. 

That night everyone on the team went for drinks.  When half the guys ordered light fucking beers, Eames sucked his lower lip into his mouth to stifle a laugh and Arthur smirked at him across the table; it would have been innocent enough had he not been slowly sliding off his leather gloves at the time. 

It was only 10 o'clock when the team wound their way back to their hotels, all except for Arthur and Eames.  Eames took full advantage of the situation and had a riotous good time getting Arthur drunk, and this was before Arthur laid all that muscle down so a few smooth whiskeys went _straight_ to his head.  He was an adorable drunk, he talked on and on and his hair seemed to grow curlier and looser with every sip.  When he rolled forward off his barstool he fell directly into Eames' arms.  It was hard to say who kissed who first but it was sloppy and noisy and Eames had to work really hard not to spoil it by grinning like an idiot. 

Eames was a gentleman, especially when dealing with someone he liked, and so he called Arthur a cab and waited with him out on the street corner.  Just before pouring him gently into the backseat, Arthur took hold of Eames' shirt collar and, in a tiny voice, mumbled, "Tell me your real name."

"Hmm," Eames purred, leaning close, "it's not time for that yet, darling.  In fact, I'd prefer if you called me _Mr_. Eames from now on."

And that was it.  The smile.  The smile that broke across Arthur's face and the light in his eyes - Eames was done for. 

The next morning Arthur showed up to the base looking like hell with bags under his eyes and a touch too much pomade in his hair.  The rehearsal began slowly with a nurse inserting everyone's IV lines.  When she knelt beside Eames, he said something that made her laugh and she trailed her fingers a little along his forearm.  Arthur silently chastised himself for falling so easily for this smooth bastard. 

Once they were under, the task was easy for the initiated and a mind fuck for the others so nobody missed Arthur and Eames when they slipped along a quiet corridor together for a few minutes.  Arthur, hoping to redress the balance, pushed Eames backwards - _hard_ \- and pinned him against the wall.  Arthur was strong and, fuck, Arthur was scary.  Eames searched his eyes and couldn't read them, and when Arthur kissed him, he knew this boy was so much more than he had first thought.  Arthur laid a hand over Eames' heart, sweet and tender, and then crumpled the material of his jacket in his fist.  Later, when Eames glanced at his reflection he noticed the creases in his jacket and his chest tightened.

Arthur took a piece of Eames in that moment and all these years later, even after Eames faked his own death and went rogue, and even despite his self perceived transmogrification into the man he is today, Arthur still owns that piece of him.  Arthur owns the last vestige of his youth and all the mischief and joy that went with it. 

Now, after almost a year apart, Arthur had dressed Eames in a jacket with creases over his heart.  But why?

Eames barely recognised Arthur the last time he saw him.  Mal's suicide was still fresh and raw and it had made Arthur seem smaller, somehow.  When they first met, Eames could see him from every angle but now so much was hidden from view that when Eames said, "Are you okay?", the look Arthur gave him could have meant _anything._ Eames - the gambler, the magician pulling rabbits out of hats, the thief - had no idea what the man sitting across from him was thinking.

"Well, darling, perhaps you and I have finally reached the end of the road," Arthur said, looking out of the window.

"Hmm, not like you to resort to tired clichés, Arthur.  You can damn well spit it out if you've something to say to me."  Eames' lip twitched, his last remaining tell, if Arthur had been looking, it would have told him that he regretted his tone.  But he wasn't.

"We've been dancing this same old dance for a decade now," Arthur shook his head and laughed mirthlessly, "I'm going to work with Cobb for a while, he needs me now and -"

"Oh, Jesus, Arty!"

Arthur turned and then and looked at Eames, dead in the eye, "Eames.  I'm tired.  I'm bone fucking tried."

They were apart for a year after that.  It was only by luck that an old connection had called Arthur up out of the blue to say that Eames had a place in Mombasa.  It was a small world, after all.  It was a good thing, too, despite what he'd said, it meant something to Arthur to know where Eames was.

As time passed, Eames buried himself in work and gambling and occasionally in alcohol and sometimes in friendship.  He was okay.  Well, he was going to be okay, eventually.  Maybe that's part of the reason his heart sank when he saw Cobb on his territory.  Out of sight, out of mind was apparently no longer an option. 

Worse still, Cobb crept into the den, clearly believing that Eames hadn't noticed him.

"Rub them together all you want, they're not going to breed," Cobb said, appearing like the final act in a fairly transparent magic routine.  

"You never know."   It was true, Cobb didn't know, he never knew and he never understood and he never saw anything.  Mal was different, oh Mal was something else entirely.  Mal had the good sense to warn Arthur about men like Eames.

When they left for Paris, Eames was glad to have Yusef in tow.  He hadn't expected to find a genius in these hot, dusty streets, especially one that could make him laugh.  He still felt like he'd been sucker punched when he saw Arthur, though. 

Being around him again felt like an odd parody of those early days, Eames covered up his nerves with swagger and took the seat next to the sharp man with the rolled up sleeves.  They exchanged looks during meetings but Arthur was smirking at Ariadne and she blushed whenever he caught her looking.

It had gone on like this, with Eames going back to his hotel alone every night and pacing the floor, his body thrumming the way it did whenever Arthur was close.  It was driving him crazy not being able to touch him, not being touched by him.

But those creases gave him hope.  When he finally saw Arthur, he hoped for a knowing look, a hint that this was purposeful.  He tried to get Arthur to look at him - properly - by standing behind Browning as Arthur slipped the IV line into his arm, he balled his fists on the man's shoulders and willed Arthur to glance upwards.  Nothing.  Then - finally - Arthur knelt beside him, smiled in the old way and, _God,_ he said, " _Mr_. Eames".

They shared a cab back to Arthur's flat after the job was finished, they didn't discuss it, Eames just waited for Arthur to collect his baggage and followed him outside.  Arthur even opened the door of the cab for him.  It was better this way, unspoken.

When they arrived at Arthur's flat, Eames kicked off his shoes and threw himself onto the sofa as though he'd never been away.  Arthur, hoping to regain the upper ground, spoke first.

"Don't think I didn't notice your little homage to me on the first level, the striped shirt."

"You're so vain, darling, I didn't give you a second thought, that shirt was simply one that Browning happened to own."

Arthur began pouring two glasses of Viognier, aptly named 'The Dreamer', "Like me, this wine is light, clean and elegant," he said, clearly reading from the label, clearly a little nervous.

Eames decided to ignore Arthur's attempt to change the subject.  "Forget the wine for a moment, you need to answer for the creases in my jacket and those ridiculous garters."

"You wore linen, I remember thinking that everyone would know what we'd been up to when they saw the creases.  The back, too, it looked like you'd slept in it by the time I put you down.  I was thinking about that, I was thinking about how little I thought about how we would work when we first...  Anyway, I suppose when we're apart I remember you the way you were then, and that's why you ended up rumpled.  I just can't stand to think us as we are."

The implications of what Arthur had said hung heavy in the air.  There were no answers to all the questions that would surely be asked if Eames pressed Arthur any further.  Arthur sighed and bowed his head.  There was a choice here.  They could talk, probably all night.  Or.

Or.

Eames stood up and unbuckled his belt, undid his fly and pulled down his zipper.  He stepped out of his trousers and, using his foot, he flung them onto an armchair. 

"You fucker," Arthur said in a low, low tone, "You're an asshole, you know that?"  Eames walked, no swaggered, towards him, shrugging off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt.  "Do you really think I'm _that_ easy?"  Eames dropped his cufflinks into Arthur's wine glass and threw his shirt aside.  "You're really asking for it, you know."

"Oh, I know."

Arthur glanced down at Eames' sock garters and then at his obscenely tight briefs and the internal battle going on in his head showed all over his face. 

"Mr. Eames, " he said, finally, "get on your knees." 

Eames grinned, wide and delighted and unabashed, and dropped to his knees.


End file.
